Short Poems

The road becomes three,
branching through spring grass—
the short way invites me.

Softly she breaks off
a dandelion—from its short stem

The old woman at the teahouse
looks me over, says very politely
how glad she is I'm looking so well
She also likes my fancy robe.

Long, long ago
my mother fills my mind
Inside her robe,
at her breast, was another
very special spring.

Springs passed—
older now, I work

White plum blossoms
in a rich merchant's garden
near Naniwa Bridge.

I've learned how
men and women love
Osaka style.

I set out from my village three springs ago,
leaving behind my little brother—
I'm a tree that's forgotten its root,
a plum branch grafted on another trunk.

As I near my village, spring deepens
I walk on and on, then even farther
on the long, willow-lined embankment.
At last I stop and start downward.

Lo! in spring rain an umbrella
Walks chatting with a straw rain-coat.